


I’ll Still Meet You in The Middle of the Night

by teenuviel1227



Category: Day6 (Band)
Genre: Cute, Fluff, M/M, Pining, bestfriends to lovers, happy valentine's day to the youngfeel tag, it's cute, some soft smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 04:34:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17780651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teenuviel1227/pseuds/teenuviel1227
Summary: Wonpil and Brian are two literary scholars who have been working on a literary grant together for the better part of a year and somewhere on the way they’ve become bestfriends, somewhere on the way they fall in love—and when they finally get around to telling each other how they feel, it’s nothing like either of them expects.





	I’ll Still Meet You in The Middle of the Night

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely based on Possession by A.S. Byatt.
> 
> Yeah, I’m a Creative Writing major, sue me for the esoteric reference.
> 
> Song is from Overnight by Maggie Rogers

The clock ticking past midnight is the only sound in the entire library except for the pervasive humming of the air-conditioning. The lights are dim, only one section remaining lit after hours. Books containing laminated photocopies of original manuscripts sit open and littered on the desk next to emptied out packs of gummy bears and cookies, a spill-proof thermos still half-filled with black coffee.

“Do you think we’ll get it?” Wonpil asks, leaning his head softly against Brian’s shoulder. He takes off his glasses, lays them on the table next to Brian’s laptop so that for a moment everything is just a swirl of amber color and blue light.

Brian resists the urge to smile—the gesture is so casual, so mundane, so much something Wonpil would do that it makes a small part of him ache. _This is what we’ve become. Now, here—this is us._ Brian shifts so that Wonpil’s head fits right in the crook between his shoulder and neck. He resists the urge to rub his cheek softly against Wonpil’s hair as the scent of Wonpil’s strawberry shampoo fills his senses.

“We’ll get it,” Brian says, reassuringly—even if he has no idea if they’ll get the grant money. He hits save on the document, double-checking whether or not they’d added the proper footnotes to this chapter. “By hook or fucking crook, we’ll bag the money.”

“Mmmmm,” Wonpil hums. “We better. Or I don’t what I’m going to fucking do with my life.”

Brian lets out a soft laugh. “Same.”

They’ve both been here, in this small town in Scotland, working on the same thing for ten months now: a research paper on the correspondence of two famous poets who may have had an affair and secretly co-authored an anonymous manuscript that Wonpil found by accident during one of his research trips for an entirely other paper—the same manuscript Brian had been searching for his entire career.

It was odd, at first, neither of them wanting to share their findings with someone else, both of them hesitant to admit that their universities would never fund them without consolidation from another scholar. But soon, both of them came to their senses, had had the other write out their formal recommendations of the other, and the stipend had come in almost instantly. After writing the first two chapters together, they’d become eligible to submit the paper for a grant—granted that something conclusive materialize within a year.

Sure, the small house on the edge of the lake was tiny (still is) and old (even more so now) sure, neither of them had lived with anyone else who wasn’t family before and Brian had a hard time getting used to Wonpil leaving his sweaters and plushies everywhere and Wonpil had a hard time getting used to Brian sleeping in random places like the laundry room and right in front of the open refrigerator door, but they both made do because they both had one thing in common: absolute dedication to their work.

Brian smiles, glancing over at Wonpil, whose fallen asleep on his shoulder, his lashes casting shadows on his cheeks.

And now, at least for Brian, dedication to Wonpil.

_How long have I felt this way? When did it begin?_

Brian looks at their document for a moment: the culmination of everything they’ve done for the past ten months. He glances at their small sticky note of Things To Do in the corner. 9/10 chapters, finished. References, finished. Proofreading, mostly finished. Only the last chapter to go. He feels a small seed of sorrow take root in his chest. He doesn’t know how these feelings began but he knows where this story ends.

After their submission date and defense, he and Wonpil will go their separate ways.

After this, back home in Toronto in the small basement loft he lives in alone, there won’t be any pink bunny slippers outside his bathroom door, no one cooking pancakes or crepes in the mornings, no one insisting they put on sheet masks during a winter storm, no one forcing him to get in the boat and sail out on the lake on the rare occasion that it’s sunny.

Brian softly leans his cheek against the top of Wonpil’s head, wonders what it would feel like for things to be like this forever, wonders what it would be like if he could tilt Wonpil’s chin, lifting his face up to his and then slowly—

Wonpil lets out a soft sigh in his sleep, mumbles something under his breath.

Brian jerks away, sits up straight.

The movement wakes Wonpil up.

“Sorry. Ah. Jeez. Sorry, I fell asleep.” Wonpil laughs, softly touching the corners of his mouth. “Did I drool on you?”

“No.” Brian grins. “But that’d be on-brand for you.”

Wonpil rolls his eyes. “It only happened _once_ before. And anyway it’s not like you stopped me from sleeping on you. You liked it.”

“So now it’s my fault?” Brian smiles, picking up Wonpil’s glasses and putting them on him, setting them on the bridge of Wonpil’s nose before he can stop himself. Wonpil blinks at him. In the candlelight, Brian notices again just how brown Wonpil’s eyes are: how close to hazel they can get up close.

_Say something._

A small smile tugs on the corners of Wonpil’s mouth.

Brian feels a small part of him turn like tide with wanting.

“Bri?”

“Hrrrm?”

“Let’s go home.”

 

_Dearest,_

_Meeting you was no accident—I do not believe in accidents after my cousin’s near-death and consequent convalescence the year before last. There is a séance I wish to attend although I suspect the true being I would like to summon from elsewhere is you, in all your sweet glory._

_Yours always,_

For Wonpil, it was the sort of thing that started right at the beginning: from the moment that he walked into the literature department to see Brian Kang sitting cross-legged by the desk, his long black coat sweeping the edge of the chair, his floppy hair windblown and pushed back, cheeks reddened by the cold winter weather.

Sure, he’d been defensive about the manuscript—he hadn’t _meant_ to take it out of the library, it had simply gotten mixed up with the books that he _had_ borrowed—but not as protective as he would’ve been if the person trying to collaborate with him didn’t look like he walked right out of some Imperial Korean prince fable. 

Dark eyes, sly mouth, shoulders broad as daylight.

Kang Younghyun. Brian, to friends. 

And then he’d actually _met_ Brian, which had begun his ten-month long torment: because Brian Kang isn’t just smart (those are a dime a dozen when you’re an academic) or good looking (even more common as far as suitors go when you look like Kim Wonpil, Sangmyung University Literature Department Golden Boy) or hardworking (a little rarer but nothing on its own, as far as Wonpil is concerned because _he_ is the most hardworking person he knows)—Brian Kang is kind.

Brian Kang puts out hot milk for stray cats and scraps of chicken for stray dogs. Brian Kang goes out back to chop them firewood when he finishes his work early. Brian Kang sits Wonpil’s plushies upright on the sofa so they can see the TV better. Brian Kang goes out to check on the generator when there’s a storm and the power goes out and Wonpil’s scared shitless. Brian Kang falls asleep on the kitchen table and still asks Wonpil if he’s alright even when Wonpil’s leading him half-asleep into his room so he can sleep properly. Brian always asks Wonpil to do dumb things like help him cook brunch or decorate their house ( _their_ house!) for Halloween or Christmas or just because there are flowers growing outside.

And today is no different. Today is another one of those Brian things. They’re out on the frozen lake, trying to ice skate. Brian’s better at it than Wonpil but Wonpil doesn’t think he’s doing so bad if he does say so himself.

Mostly, he follows Brian around as Brian makes figure-eights on the ice.

_I’d follow you anywhere._

In Wonpil’s mind’s eye: a warm apartment, maybe back home in Seoul—Brian carrying the take out in with a good bottle of Wonpil’s favorite pink wine, Wonpil choosing what poetry book they’d read for the evening. And after, when they’re both sated from hunger and thirst and the poetry book is lying face-down on the coffee table, maybe they’d sit side by side or Wonpil would climb into Brian’s lap and put his arms around those broad shoulders, let his fingers skim the soft hair on Brian’s neck—

“What are you doing?” Brian asks, grinning as he looks over his shoulder at Wonpil.

Wonpil blinks. He stumbles, catches himself, lets out a laugh. “Chasing you, I guess.”

“Why don’t you try other patterns?” Brian grins, skating another eight. “It’s fun.”

“I might fall—“

“—it’s ice, Pil. Falling won’t kill you—“ Brian grins, going faster, faster—and then changing direction.

Wonpil does his best to follow but his blades catch on a small bump in the ice. Wonpil lets out a yell and then he’s a flurry of navy blue, stumbling forward and falling, falling.

Before Brian knows what he’s doing, he’s reaching out to catch him, pulling Wonpil toward him by the hem of his scarf as they fall, skidding on the ice. Wonpil feels his heart racing as he finds himself lying on top of Brian, both of their bodies so warm under all of the clothing, in the middle of the white flurry. He puts a hand to Brian’s chest. Heart thudding hard and fast, even under the layers of clothing.

“Are you okay?” Wonpil asks, putting a hand to the back of Brian’s head, checking for blood or bruising.

Brian lets out a laugh. “I’m fine. We fell kind of slow anyway.”

Wonpil grins, realizing how close Brian is, how the smallest movement could push them closer than they’ve ever been, could give him that warmth, that craving that he’s felt building in his bones over the past year.

“Yeah. Yeah, I guess we did.”

Brian blinks up at him. “Are _you_ okay?”

Wonpil lets out a laugh, swats at Brian’s chest playfully.

“You’re the one who hit the ice and you’re asking _me_ if I’m okay?”

Brian grins, reaching up to fix Wonpil’s hat, pulling the wool softly over Wonpil’s red-tipped ears.

“If you’re okay, I’m okay.”

 

_My Dearest,_

_Maybe this lifetime is not ours to share—but what little of it we have shared has been a lifetime for me. Perhaps for now, that is enough._

_Yours, always._

“You happy?” Brian asks, glancing at Wonpil, who’s sitting on the sofa in their small cottage. He has his pajama bottoms on but is still wearing his dress shirt and tie albeit loosened, unbuttoned. Brian takes a swig from his glass of wine, feels the warmth in his belly as the liquid makes its way down his throat.

It’s their last week here and right after their defense at the department: they got the grant money, went straight to the bank and encashed it before spending part of it on good meat and cheese, a nice bottle of wine. Pink, because Wonpil got to the cashier with the bottle first. They’re both a little buzzed—just enough so that Wonpil leans on Brian and Brian is brave enough to let his arm drape across Wonpil’s shoulders.

“Hmmm,” Wonpil says, taking a sip from his glass. He pauses, trying to put into words how he feels. He looks at Brian, thinks about how much he’ll miss the sureness, the broadness of him. “I’m happy I guess.”

“You _guess_?” Brian raises an eyebrow. “We only worked on all this for almost a year. We only uncovered one of the greatest romances of all fucking time. And you’re happy YOU GUESS?”

Wonpil lets out a loud, clear laugh—Brian feels a pang of pain as he thinks about how much he’s going to miss that sound.

“Well,” Wonpil says, putting his glass down on the coffee table to turn and look at Brian. “I’m happy about the grant, of course. But—“

He takes Brian’s glass, sets it down on the coffee table too. Their fingers tingle where they touch. Wonpil grins, pauses before nervously biting on his lower lip.

“—but I’m really sad too.” He reaches over, ruffles Brian’s hair.

Brian touches Wonpil’s hand, holds it in place just as Wonpil is about to draw back. He presses Wonpil’s hand softly to his cheek, closes his eyes against the warmth of Wonpil’s touch. When Brian opens his eyes, they’re glassy with tears.

“Bri—I—ever since we started, I’ve felt a certain way—““

“—Pil, I—“ Brian shakes his head, the sobs coming faster, harder now. “—I love you and I don’t know what I’m going to do now—“

“—I love you, Bri—I love you too—“

“—I was such an idiot for not saying anything sooner—“

“—and now we don’t have time—“

Brian looks up, wipes away Wonpil’s tears with his thumbs, lingering on the soft apples of his cheeks.

“That’s not true.”

Wonpil pouts. “It is. It’s true. We have the money and we’re going to move away from each other and maybe now we think it’s the most important thing in the world but eventually we’ll fall out of touch and—“

“—we have tonight.” Brian’s voice is deep, serious, and gravelly from crying.

Wonpil blinks at him. Slowly, as if asking permission, Brian runs a hand up the length of Wonpil’s tie, pauses where the knot does up at his throat.

Wonpil’s heart is pounding in his chest. He nods slowly and Brian pulls him in, pulls him close until their lips touch in a kiss that’s both gentle and torrid, wet with want, each nip and lick curious, feeding a hunger both of them have been unable to acknowledge until now. Brian slips a hand under the hem of Wonpil’s shirt and Wonpil moves quick: straddles Brian, skims his fingers up his name, ruffling the soft hair there. Brian kisses down Wonpil’s neck, undoes his tie, tugs on his shirt so hard some of the buttons pop off—not that Wonpil cares because now Brian is tracing the shape of his shoulder with his tongue.

Wonpil puts his hands on Brian’s shoulders and starts to grind, moving his hips so that every movement sends Brian’s breath hitching staccato against his skin.

Brian uses an arm to hold Wonpil down by the waist, bucking his hips up to meet Wonpil, both of them hard and leaking with want, both of them moving like their skin is on fire and it’s a race to get to water or they’ll burn alive. Wonpil pulls Brian’s sweater up over his head and tosses it aside, kisses down Brian’s neck, his chest, sucking softly on his nipples until they’re stiff and slick with his spit.

“Fuck—Pil—“ Brian throws his head back as Wonpil grinds harder against him, holding onto the buckle of his belt for traction.

“—oh Bri, god you feel amazing—“ Wonpil says against Brian’s lips as Brian pulls him forward and slips a hand between his legs, palming him through his pajamas. “—no fair—you’re still in denim—“

Brian grins, nipping softly on Wonpil’s lower lip. “—we can do something about that—“

Wonpil grins. “But then I’d have to get off you and I really don’t want to do that.”

Brian lets out a soft laugh. “Gotta get off me to get me off. There’s dramatic irony for you.”

“You say that to all the boys?”

Brian grins. “Only the ones named Kim Wonpil, PhD.”

Wonpil lets out a soft laugh, lets himself fall onto Brian’s chest. He kisses Brian’s ear.

“Bri?”

“Hrrrm?”

“What if we just made out or went to bed tonight? I—I mean. Leave something for the future. Leave something for us to come back to.”

“I don’t want to go separate ways.” Brian holds Wonpil close, kissing him softly. “I don’t want to come back to anything. I want to be together from here on in.”

Wonpil grins. “Let’s leave something for tomorrow then. Think of it as sympathetic magic.”

Brian nods. “Alright. I’m hard as a fucking rock but I’d wait a billion years for you.”

Wonpil laughs, kisses Brian’s neck.

“Bri?”

“Hrrrrm?”

“Now I’m just happy. Absolutely and entirely.”


End file.
